


Day Dreaming

by carriesagun (irradiations)



Category: Torchwood
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-16
Updated: 2012-05-16
Packaged: 2017-11-05 12:02:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/406183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irradiations/pseuds/carriesagun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Owen doesn't like guys. At least, he doesn't that he knows of. But sometimes he wonders if, maybe, some part of him does.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Day Dreaming

**Author's Note:**

> Vaguely inspired by a prompt on the twclssckinkmeme, but not really close enough to be posted there. Loved this episode, and the UST between Mark and Owen. Enjoy!

Owen looked around at the flat, all neutral colours and zero life. The punch bag added a happy splash of colour, in stark contrast to how the item should feel in a room. Even the books in the bookcase seemed to be full of books only if they matched the white and beige colour scheme.

His lip stung dully, a feeling he knew would wear off once the cut scabbed. He hated how Diane’s memory made him feel so fucking immature, like a teenage boy with a stupid crush – who, now, apparently got into fights for no reason.

Stirring from his thoughts, Owen noticed that Mark was taking off his shirt. Interesting, Owen thought; how many blokes just whip off their clothes in front of a stranger? 

His eyes were drawn to the taught, washboard abs. A purely scientific interest, of course, looking for tell tale marks that could have come from a weevil. Of course.

He noticed the scratches on Mark’s lean back, deep enough to be from a weevil, for sure. Owen considered asking about them, but his mind was still all caught up with Mark’s chest.

Owen felt a small pang of guilt, thinking of Diane, wondering where she was and what she was doing. He would honestly bet that it wasn’t staring at estate agents who were almost certainly up to no good and wondering what it would feel like to have said estate agent sucking on your cock.

Owen let that thought wander on as he sat down at the aluminium table, beer in hand, noting how his lips went around the top of the bottle, soothing the cut from the cold glass. He watched Mark take a sip, the way his lips pursed around the bottle, and Owen slipped further under the table, hiding his growing bulge in his expensive suit trousers.

Mark was talking again, but, though Owen was replying, his mind was still picturing Mark on his knees, pretty pink lips sliding up and down Owen’s erect shaft, Owen’s fingers lacing through Marks soft, brunette hair. 

He could feel Mark’s tongue sliding up and down, hovering at the tip, making Owen’s hips buck, fingers convulsing in Mark’s hair. It was becoming increasingly difficult to pay attention to what the real Mark was saying; the day-dream was far too exciting and felt too real and, fuck, well, what harm could a little dream do?

Now he was bending his day-dream Mark over that very expensive aluminium table, tight, smooth buttocks pointing in his direction. Owen’s hands were on them, caressing, slender, deft fingers working Mark open, pausing only long enough to slide on a condom, and then they were moving together.

Hips grinding, Owen’s cock hitting just that spot that made Mark moan uncontrollably, hands grabbing at the air due to the lack of anything on the cold glass table to cling to and ground him, sweat rolling down his back, working like lubricant under Owen’s busy hands.

“And then, of course, there’s people like you and me, isn’t there, Owen?” Owen jumped in surprise, so caught up with the image of Mark being fucked, managed to mumble a response that Mark seemed to take as being a suitable reply, leaving Owen free to slip back into his day dream.

Now Mark was fucking Owen, hands so hot on Owen’s hips, the pain long gone and now just pleasure. They were on the sofa, the cream leather sticking to Owen’s back as Mark thrusted lazily into Owen, not taking his eyes off of Owen’s face, watching the red rise up his neck into his cheeks as he stuttered a word out that could have been an exclamation to one deity or another. Come fell from his cock onto his stomach, laying sticky in the sexy trail of hair from his belly button downwards.

Mark felt that growing ache, and, with a last firm thrust, was soon coming too, hardly able to hold his weight up as the feeling zinged along his nerves, making his muscles clumsy and uncoordinated.

Owen all of a sudden stood up, nearly knocking his beer all over that beautiful table. “You okay, Owen?” Mark asked, face concerned but also teasing. “All the excitement got to you?” he added, and Owen wondered if he could see the erection throbbing against his trousers.

“Nope, just the beer. Point me in the direction of the loos in this art gallery?” he said, hurrying off to find them when Mark pointed towards the stairs.

Weevil’s be bloody damned. The only thing Owen was worried about was jacking off, and getting away from Mark and those glorious lips.

Damn.


End file.
